They say all's fair (in love and war)
by core-example
Summary: Balls, arranged by his mother, to try and thrust him into the life of his future wife. Yeah. Right.


I know I'm meant to be updating my other story, but you've got this instead. It's a one shot inspired by Michael Bublé's Haven't Met You Yet. It wouldn't leave me alone so yeah. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and I embrace them.

* * *

I'm not surprised, not everything lasts.

I've broken my heart so many times, I stopped keeping track  
Talk myself in, I talk myself out  
I get all worked up, then I let myself down

I tried so very hard not to lose it  
I came up with a million excuses  
I thought, I thought of every possibility.

* * *

He hated these things.

In fact, he despised them.

Balls, arranged by his mother, to try and thrust him into the life of his future wife. Yeah. Right.

His collar was high and starchy, tie suffocating, shining shoes pinched his toes and reflected his sour expression. His hair was slicked back and he all but _ached_ to get out of there.

Sherlock sighed, inwardly counting down the seconds until his mother (or worse, his _brother_) found him lurking in the corner and forced him to go and dance.

He _really_ didn't want to dance.

His mother's tinkling (and very fake) laugh reached him as the band paused between songs and he groaned as her face was still pointed to the side.

"Sherlock!" She chastised him with a tight smile that looked really rather painful. "What are you doing sulking during this wonderful party?" His mother never was one for modesty. "You must get out there and dance. Now. Who knows? You may even meet your bride!" Despite her twinkling eyes, her falsely cheerful voice was firm and left no room for argument. That, and she shoved him onto the gleaming floor full of swishing skirts and squeaking shoes.

He sighed, a feminine hand appearing into his barely offering palm from nowhere. His face remained passive, borderline bored, as his other hand fell on the girl's waist, and hers onto his shoulder.

The tune was slow and dull, but even that couldn't wipe the splitting grin off the girl's face. It wasn't any secret that he was the most eligible bachelor in all of London and girls that weren't already betrothed (and some that already was) would do next to anything to become Mrs. Holmes.

How dull and predictable they all were.

It took mere seconds for Sherlock to know everything about this woman in a single glance: _rich background, then her father left her mother for an escort, leaving behind piles of debt, she's currently having an affair with the bakery boy, no where near her social status. _

All of this caused a smirk to curve it's way on his face, and the girl's smile widened and her breath hitched, obviously thinking it was something to do with her, or more likely, the ridiculously low cut dress she was sporting.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as partners were swapped in a fluid motion and the crestfallen brunette was switched for a blonde.

Again, it was all too easy, and still oh so very dull. (_She was planning on telling her father that she was running away with one of the servants tonight. And by telling, she was leaving in the middle of the night, delivering the news by brief note._)

The tedious activity droned on for hours (how could it have only been twenty minutes?!) and the most interesting thing that had happened had been an argument between some Lord and Lady about the origin of their latest child (shock horror, it's not his).

He eventually managed to excuse himself with a lame excuse (for him, anyway) of getting a drink and he was so close to slipping out when a familiar hooked cane halted him by the midriff.

"Going somewhere, little brother?" The drawling voice of Mycroft caused a great sigh to leave Sherlock.

"Of course not," he said tightly, eyes narrowing as he took a step back from the cane, "you know how it upsets mummy."

It was blatantly clear that Mycroft didn't believe him for the slightest second, but he didn't comment on it. "Naturally. This is all for you, you know."

Oh, he certainly knew how to rub him up the wrong way. "Yes. Isn't it lovely." He managed to get out through gritted teeth. "Now, if you'd excuse me, I have some dancing to do."

Mycroft was far too amused for Sherlock's liking.

He dawdled back onto the floor, edging his way around whilst keeping one eye on his mother and the other on his brother. He'd no idea which he feared more.

His attention was brought to the band as the leader announced the next song, requesting the gentlemen and the ladies to get into two parallel lines.

It was all Sherlock could do not to sod it all and bolt. But still, he complied, keeping near the end and artfully ignoring the batted eyelashes of the woman before him (_widow, murdered her first husband, framed the butler_).

Out of the entire charade, this was the part he hated the most.

The concept was simple really, as was the outcome.

One weaved between the participants, meeting hands in the middle, and whoever one ends up with at the end, one shares a dance for the duration of an _entire song. _

As accustomed, Sherlock bowed (albeit stiffly) along with the other men as the women curtseyed.

Then it began.

On a daily basis, Sherlock tried to avoid as much physical contact as humanly possible, so it really wasn't his fault that he all but shuddered ever time a cold or clammy hand came into contact with his.

Except when he didn't.

This hand was warm and so very soft.

He knew he was surprised as he found his head snapping up, eyes marginally wider at the jolts that flew up his arm, setting his heart ablaze and his brain into overdrive.

It took him several (long) seconds to realize the music had stopped, and even longer to realize that it would be her who he danced with (_for the duration of an entire song!_).

She smiled softly at him, and he found himself smiling back without hesitation, his mouth curving into his first real smile of the evening.

She's different, he noticed.

Her face wasn't obscured by make-up, only highlights to enhance a natural glow. Instead of having one of the ridiculous beehives or complicated knots and twists that society called fashion, her hair simply fell in soft, luscious waves down her back and over her shoulders; chestnut brown with hints of auburn.

He found his fingers itching to run through it.

It was her eyes, though, that captivated his very essence. The warmth they radiated from the honey-hued brown, the kindness they gave without being asked. His own bored into them, mirroring her expression.

He ducked into a bow before he could stop himself - not that he would of if he could - and pressed his lips onto her knuckles, eyes never leaving hers. The blush that pinked her cheeks only made her more endearing.

The music started up, and this time, he found the tune a melody. A simple melody of violins and flutes, almost a lullabye.

Sherlock led her, finding them lighter than air with every step perfect; every twirl graceful. They were comfortable in each other's arms, relaxed even. It was as if the ballroom had suddenly emptied and it was just the two of them commanding the floor, eyes locked, hands together, smiles sweet.

The woman started to hum along, and Sherlock found his heart soaring at the sound; soaring straight past the constricting ceiling into the inky blackness, dotted with the same crystals embedded in her eyes.

The song was ending quickly, the final notes of the song fading out and she was drawing back and no, no, _no_ she couldn't. He didn't know a thing about her except for the fact that he had to hold on.

Her smile grew as she appraised him fully and _oh_, her voice was like music.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes."

He needed something, anything to say, but his mind was blank and his throat was dry.

She didn't give him time, however, as she had already left, the crowd suddenly swelling to block his view of her retreating form. He jostled almost wildly, stretching up and pushing whoever got in his way.

She wasn't getting away. Not again.

(He wasn't sure why this felt familiar, by it did.)

With a grunt, he tripped through, catching her by the slim wrist.

The silence that fell over them was blissful. No music. No chatter. Nothing.

Just their breathing.

(Again, this fact didn't seem to arise suspicion.)

He couldn't take the pull any longer, and it seemed she was in the same mind as as soon as he threw himself down to her, she thrust herself up, meeting him in the middle.

If her hands were silky and her eyes angelic, then her lips were a whole something else.

They moulded to his in a way that could only be artificially sculpted, his own used as a template. His eager pressure was met and matched, her hand gripping his neck as his own wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

After seconds, hours, days, they pulled apart, her breath washing against his face as he played his forehead against hers, eyes pulsing back at him.

"I don't-" he cut himself off, his husky voice alien, "I don't even know your name."

Her laughter was tinkling and seared into his brain forever.

"You will," she said serenely, hand brushing his cheek and sending shivers rocketing down his spine, "very soon now."

He started to feel detached, drowsy almost. Something was off- wrong.

"No- _no_, I can't, I won't. I won't leave you."

"Oh, Sherlock," she said his name like a prayer, "you're not leaving me at all. You're meeting me."

His heart hammered against his chest.

"You're meeting me very soon."

"_NO_-"

The word was ripped from his throat as Sherlock Holmes woke up in his bed.

* * *

Sherlock's very... edgy today, John notices as he shoots the other man a look, brow furrowed.

The man in question had his fingers poised and steepled beneath his chin, eyes unblinking with his legs crossed beneath him.

He couldn't take it any longer. "What's up with you?" John asked, sitting opposite him and balancing a cup of tea on the arm of the chair. Yes, he didn't live at Baker Street anymore, but he didn't wait for an invitation to pop round just to simply see his best friend. The fact that an invitation would never come is besides the point.

It took several seconds for Sherlock to even acknowledge the man, never mind answer.

"Is it possible to invent a person you've never encountered in your subconscious?"

Although he kept his features steeled, Sherlock's ears had pricked and he gave his undivided attention to the doctor.

The dream hadn't been the first. Not by a long shot.

There'd been many before last night's, each more frustrating than the one before.

She's always present in one way or another: all creamy skin and doe eyes. _Every time _she accelerates his pulse and makes his lungs insufficient, and _every time_ she escapes before he can find out a thing about her.

Not even her name.

Normally, he wouldn't let something so trivial bother him, but there was just something about her.

Something mysterious; something exciting and enticing. Something familiar.

Yet he knows for a fact he's never met her before- glanced at her before, in fact. She was a face he'd remember, stow away somewhere in his palace.

"Well... Um, technically, no." It was obvious the question had startled him. "Why? What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said offhandedly, releasing himself from his confined position and standing up, "you busy for all of today?"

"Well, actually, l-"

"Excellent, off we go then." He's already got his coat on and is in the process of tying on his scarf.

John opens his mouth, a retort on the tip of his tongue before he sighs, knowing a lost battle when he sees one. "Where are we going?"

"Barts."

* * *

Turns out, Lestrade was waiting for them.

He was obviously mid-text, his expression morphing from shock to confusion as his arm holding the phone fell simply to the side.

"What?- I was just about to..." He trails off, shaking his head at Sherlock's raised eyebrows, "never mind."

John nods in greeting, shaking his hand warmly as Sherlock stalks off, leaving the other two at his heels. "What you got for me then?"

He makes the familiar trek to the morgue, something not quite sitting right. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, despite the scarf and his pace slowed as they neared the doors.

"I'm glad you've slowed down," Lestrade said, puffing round to stand in front of Sherlock's slightly pinched face, "shut up and listen. There's a new pathologist, and she's not the most confident of things, so _be nice_. I mean it." He gave a warning look before he pushed through the doors.

"How're we doing?" Lestrade asked, walking towards a woman in a lab coat, leaning over a over a partially covered body. Her back was to them, so Sherlock knew nothing but the colour of her hair. (Chestnut with hints of auburn shining under the fluorescent lighting. He finds himself smiling slightly, then berating himself for doing such a thing.)

"On the outside, the cause is obvious: burns. But they're oddly deep, like someone cut the skin there first. _But_, on the inside _look_, blisters."

The reaction was instantaneous. A shiver rocks through Sherlock's entire body, and every single muscle tenses.

The voice.

_That_ voice.

John must notice because he looks up in concern, brows burrowing as he takes in his expression. Eyes wide and face pale, mouth parted slightly as his Adam's Apple Bob's.

"Sherlock?" He murmurs.

"Oh, of course!" Lestrade yells, not acknowledging the abnormal (rather frightening) stance of Sherlock. "Let me introduce you! Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, this is Molly Hooper."

She turns, and her polite smile falters slightly, but it's nothing to stop the sheer warmth radiating off.

Sherlock gets whirled with everything all at once: _creamy skin so obviously soft to the touch; pink lips stretched into a smile; honey-hued doe eyes crinkled happily._

All at once he's there in every situation he's ever met her in. A beach, a restaurant, a hotel, even Baker Street, a ballroom and a morgue.

The familiarity is reflected in her eyes, along with the pure shock and _longing_.

It's her.


End file.
